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to make life unbearable for him. He sat still for a few minutes, and then forced himself to stand up. He need only stay until the speeches were over. Speeches!
    He almost sat down again at the thought of listening to Master Wilson pontificate, but he had not eaten since
    breakfast, and the smells of cooking from the kitchen
    had been delicious.
    He brushed hastily at the dust and mud that clung
    to his best gown, and straightened the black robe underneath.
    He walked across the courtyard, stopping on the
    way to look in on Augustus. The commoners shared a
    large dormitory on the upper floor of the southern
    wing, but because Augustus talked to himself and kept
    the others awake, he had been given a small room of
    A pLAGUE ON BOTl) YOUR l)OUSeS
     
    his own, an unusual privilege for any College member,
    but especially a commoner. The commoners’ room and
    Augustus’s chamber were dark, but Bartholomew could
    make out Augustus lying on the bed, and could hear
    his slow, rhythmic breathing. In the main dormitory,
    Brother Paul, another commoner too frail to attend
    the feast, coughed wetly and muttered in his sleep.
    Satisfied, Bartholomew made his way to the hall,
    and tried to slip as unobtrusively as possible into his seat at the high table at the raised end of the hall. Wilson leaned forward and shot him an unpleasant look. Next
    to Bartholomew, Giles Abigny had already had far too
    much to drink, and was regaling Brother Michael with
    a story of his experiences with a prostitute in London.
    For a monk, Michael was showing an unseemly interest.
    On Bartholomew’s other side, the two Franciscan friars, Aelfridi and William, were already deep in some debate about the nature of original sin, while Wilson, Alcote and Swynford huddled together plotting God knew what.
    Bartholomew ate some of the spiced venison slowly,
    realising that he had grown so used to plain College fare, that the strongly flavoured meats and piquant sauces were too rich for him. He wondered how many scholars would
    over-indulge and make themselves sick. The ever-growing pile of gnawed bones and the grease-splattered table near Michael indicated that he had no such reservations.
    A roar of laughter from the students jolted him
    from his thoughts. Members of the College usually spoke Latin, or occasionally court French, at the few meals
    where speaking was permitted, and the conversation
    was generally learned. But tonight, as a gesture of
    courtesy to his secular guests, Wilson had decreed that the conversation might be in any language. Bartholomew glanced around the hall, noting the brightly coloured
    tapestries, begged and borrowed from other Colleges
    for the occasion, that adorned the walls. The walls were normally bare so as not to distract scholars from their studies, and the benches, now draped with rich cloths, were plain wood. The guests from the town added
    splashes of colour among the students’ black gowns.
    Servants scurried here and there bearing large jugs of wine and platters of food that left trails of spilled grease.
    In the gallery normally occupied by the Bible scholar, a small group of musicians fought to make their singing
    heard over the hubbub.
    Down the table, Brother Michael chortled with
    unmonklike delight as he listened with rapt attention
    to Abigny. Fortunately for him, his imprudent laughter was screened from the austere Franciscan Fellows by
    another roar of laughter from the students.
    The Oliver brothers were the centre of attention,
    a group of younger students gathering round them
    admiringly. Bartholomew heard Elias telling them how
    he had been the last one through the gates to make sure that all the others were safe inside. At that moment,
    Henry looked up towards the high table, and stared at
    Bartholomew, his blue eyes blazing with hatred. They
    held each other’s gaze for a moment, before Henry,
    with a sneer, looked away.
    Bartholomew was puzzled. He had had very little
    to do with the Oliver brothers - they